


The World's a Stage

by Captain_Clueless



Series: The Wolves of Tirragen [1]
Category: PIERCE Tamora - Works, The Song of the Lioness - Tamora Pierce, Tortall - Tamora Pierce
Genre: F/M, For Want of a Nail AU, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-21
Updated: 2015-12-21
Packaged: 2018-05-08 04:24:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5483222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Captain_Clueless/pseuds/Captain_Clueless
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Summary: You know you’re a Player when, to keep yourself calm, you’re telling the Daughter of the Temple folktales between contractions. About a commoner named Akela, and how a Player became a Guard. OC-centric.</p><p>First part of the Wolves of Tirragen, an AU series following Alexander of Tirragen through the Song of the Lioness years, with one key difference: For Want of a Nail, Alex of Tirragen does not become a traitor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The World's a Stage

**_The World’s a Stage_ **

 

The play the Rosehips are performing that night is one of the old Gallan stories, about a king, whose reign came under threat. That’s what Melody told the Daughter of the Mother attending her, as hot water is fetched, and she is hustled into the birth chamber of the Temple. One of those stories where the King is assassinated, and the child of the King is hustled into the woods, with a few servants trusted by the Queen but no men-at-arms. Bandits waylay the party, and no servant survived. But Lord Weiryn, the lord of the wild, watched over the child, and sent wolves to find and rescue him. The wolves took him in as a cub.

Raised by wolves, eh? the Daughter of the Mother asks, wryly. How’d that turn out?

Not too bad, really, Melody replies, a little breathless as the contraction leaves.

The Daughter makes a noise of interest, and Melody knows that she is placating her. Birth, after all, is a long process, and it’s better for all parties to remain calm; talking can help.

The child grew up well? the Daughter asks.

He did, Melody says. Her hair is already dampened with sweat. The wolves taught him to hunt, and how to read people. Taught him to never kill for bloodlust, anger, never to kill unless it was necessary; hunt for food, and food alone. And the wolves taught him to cross pack law at his peril.

And what happened after the child grew up?

The Daughter knows her stories quite well for someone not trained in them. In every story, the child must leave his home, be it house, van, or den.

The child returned to his Kingdom, and was shocked at what he saw. He did not know his father had been King; Lord Weiryn had seen fit to keep it from the wolves. Eventually, a cousin had come forward, and returned the rule to safety.

But? the Daughter prompts.

But, Melody replies, and she gasps as another contraction hits. The Daughter offers her forearm, and Melody clasps it, her fingers digging into the arm, tight. The Daughter barely winces.

The Daughter’s eyes are expectant, and Melody forces her mind to work through the script.

The new King, she says, in gasps, vision tinted red, is too busy reforming the court to see what happens in the Kingdom’s capital. But the man could see, and he was horrified by the lawlessness.  Thievery every night; not even a full-grown strong man could go out without fear; banditry rife; poverty rampant.

He’d never seen bad times with the wolves? the Daughter asks. Her tone is dry like the Great Southern Desert of Tortall that Melody crossed as a young woman, utterly arid.

He had, she replied, and she exhales in a rush, as the contraction recedes. But if someone broke Pack law, then the perpetrator was always punished. There was no way to get away with it. If you ran, the Pack hunted you. If you didn’t run, either the Pack leader or the wolf wronged would fight you. Or, if your crime was more minor, then you would have to make amends. But in Cría, then, there was no enforcement. No protectors.

So what did the man do?

Melody gave a smirk that shrank to a tenth of its original size as the next contraction hit. (How on earth was it that it could take ten hours of this to give birth to a babe?)

Ask my lord Provost, she says, smirk tiny, the only smile she can retain through this pain, about why Cría’s guards are called Wolves.

The Daughter laughs, softly, and claps one hand on her leg. Well told, lady Player, she says. Tell me another, for it is almost midnight, and your babe will be in your arms by dawn. Courage, now.

So Melody steels her courage, puts on as wide a Player’s smile as she can, and begins the story of a merchant heiress who becomes a pirate.

For the whole world’s a stage, and through her pain, the show will go on.

* * * * *

When the crying bundle is placed in her limp arms, bloody and messy in the light of dawn, she doesn’t know whether she ought to scowl or smile. Gently, she taps her babe on the shoulder.

“And you not even doing the work,” she says, even as she fights a smile, and quiet awe and joy well from her exhaustion.

The Daughter is weary, her forearms are bruised now, and there are bags under her eyes. Melody’s own hair is slick with sweat, and raising her head from the pillow cannot be considered for at least a week. The Daughter who has endured the birth alongside her is made of sterner stuff.

“Do you know what you will call her?”

Melody hums, as her drained brain tries to think of an answer.

“You never said,” the Daughter says, “what the name of the child was. From the story about the wolves.”

“Akela,” Melody replies softly.

“Sounds like a fine name,” the Daughter says.

“The child was a boy,” Melody says.

The Daughter raises an eyebrow. “And?”

Melody slowly nods. She’s always liked the sound of the name anyway.

“Good morning, Akela. Akela Ethansra,” she says, greeting her daughter for the first time.

* * * * * *

Player folk don’t have many children; the constant journeying isn’t ideal for having large families, so any decisions relating to them are made by the entire group, and the children are raised by the group. In the Rosehips, there is Akela Ethansra and there is Robin Aidansra, Dahlia’s child, born in the same month as Akela.

Akela is spirited and friendly child, although she cannot compete with Robin for sheer gregariousness. She has her father’s black hair, and her mother’s striking gold eyes and pale complexion. Robin is slight, blonde, blue-eyed, and something of a prima donna; like mother, like daughter, down to a T. Robin is everyone’s darling, because Robin takes to the stage like she’s born for it, and, once curbed, prima donna mannerisms are manageable flaws in a leading lady. Nobody doubts that Robin will be one. Her voice is wonderful; her dancing flawless; her acting easily equal to that of a much older child, for all that she’s only six. There’s no chance that she’ll be strong enough to wield a spear or glaive, such as the stronger women and the men of the troupe can; Nestor decrees that when they’re old enough, she will be taught the sling.

There are some fears of a rivalry developing, but Akela doesn’t seem to want to compete, seemingly content to play the moon to Robin's sun. She can dance well, with some practice, and her voice is sweet enough, and her acting competent enough. She’s strong enough to be taught to use a glaive or a sword. Her memory is magnificent. But it's not in her the way it is in Robin, and where the fables and stories set Robin's eyes alight, Akela treats them more like duties and chores to which she has to attend. Dahlia can’t resist shooting smirks at Melody after Robin outperforms Akela in their lessons, and gravitates to the centre of the stage, because Akela is good, but Robin is _superb_.

 When Melody snaps at her daughter, in a fit of pique, about how she’ll never be a proper Player at this rate, two of the older members of the troupe exchange knowing looks.

* *  * * *

When Akela is seven, the troupe decides at Imbolc that it’s time to leave Galla. Tusaine, old Nestor decides, would be a nice change. Travelling Players must perform everywhere, throughout the Eastern Lands. Akela and Robin must be able to perform in the high mountains and forests of Galla, ready to deal with Galla’s pious, stern folk; but they must also be prepared to deal with the haughty nobles, aggressive merchants, and sly vendors who call Tusaine home.

Galla is a good place to instill a moral compass. For tempering that same compass, Tusaine is peerless.

 * * * * *

Predictably, Akela hates Tusaine.

The language is strange and harsh. Compared to the flowing beauty of the Gallan language, it’s hell on her ears, and every sentence comes out low and angry.

The people they meet on the road sneer at them, even as they fight smiles at their performances, even as they throw coppers and the occasional silver at them for their pains. When they are invited to perform at a court noble’s palace, Akela is wide-eyed. Their clothing is vibrant and dainty, painstakingly sewn, prestige spun into cloth; Akela and Robin flinch with every careless step the nobles take, and every spill of wine and meat, thinking of how long it would take to get stains out of even one of their shimmering gowns.

The first merchant house is better; they’re practical enough folk to know they’re no good at entertainment, and a comedy about a complex scam suffices to keep them happy. All the same, the matriarch of the household looks at Akela’s mother with resentment and fury, and Akela frowns. She’s noticed the way the head of the house keeps looking at her Ma too; but her Ma’s but a Player, going about her business. His fault if he can’t keep his eyes from wandering, not Melody’s.

But the ridiculousness of Tusaine doesn’t stop with the upper classes. Akela sees, and she sees the way the beggars hold their head high, even if they only have a single copper more than the beggar beside them; she sees the way appearance is valued above so much else.

And when they enter the capital city of Tusaine, and the troupe performs at an inn one night, she sees the local slumlord walk in. Everybody stiffens, yet for a time, the Players’ manage to alleviate the tension, as Dahlia and Aidan don’t so much as blink, simply continuing with their duet.

But Akela sees the tension rising, as the slumlord swaggers. He orders the finest beer, to be served by the prettiest bar girl, and he continues to lord his privilege. And when an infuriated woman whose been pinched one time too many punches him in the face, the brawl begins.

Akela sees red. She’s fed up with this place, this endless bragging, this rampant haughtiness, and the fight is the last straw.

Vaguely, she hears her mother calling her, as the Rosehips rapidly collect their gear and pot, ready to move out; it doesn’t do for Players to get caught in bar-brawls. As if in a daze, she ducks and weaves through the crowd, until her mother is resting her hand on her shoulder.

When they’re out of the tavern, she realises that she’s crying, silent tears that stream into her mother’s long skirts. And she can’t tell if it’s fear or rage.

“It’s alright, sweetling,” her mother murmurs, stroking her hair. “We’re safe.”

But the fighting’s still going on, and that night, Akela just can’t sleep.

* * * * *

Eventually, though, Akela adapts. She is a Player-child, and a Player walks among every audience with aplomb. She learns to keep her exasperation with the frippery of Tusaine low; her fury at bloodshed and arrogance becomes a simmer, rather than a boil.

She learns to see the good.

She learns that the Tusainie nobles, for all the insanity of their grandeur, perform charity liberally. She learns that the national obsession with beauty doesn’t mean that friends don’t exist, as she sees a girl’s friends whisking her away to doll her up for the festival. She learns that the flamboyancy makes Midwinter celebrations louder and even merrier. She even learns to take pleasure in the harsh, low tones of the language.

She learns that it’s as pointless to compare Tusaine and Galla. They’re too different to make a comparison worthwhile.

* * * * *

By the time Akela is ten, the troupe has wearied of Tusaine. More specifically, they’ve wearied of the strain of keeping the children settled and practical whilst teaching them to navigate and blend into Tusainie culture. It’s a difficult task at the best of times, and with Dahlia just fallen pregnant again, this is _not_ the best of times. So the troupe decides to head across the Drell again, and turn their eyes back towards Tortall, home ground for most of the troupe. They plan to cut across the Drell into Fief Tirragen, and then far northwards towards the City of the Gods, in time for Dahlia to give birth. They will travel slowly, carefully, weapons at the ready; and with any luck, they’ll make it through.

* * * * *

Akela gazes at the path sloping before them, a muddy brown track that snakes through the tan, green-dotted terraces so that inconsiderate travellers don’t harm the rice crops. Inconsiderate travellers like the Rosehips, with their four wagons that, on their front, bear the cheerful bright pink flower in bloom, their title and emblem, as well as the harlequin that announces _travelling Player folk_ throughout the Eastern Lands. Each Player band has its own pattern and colors; the Rosehips’ harlequin is pale pink diamonds on black.

It had taken them longer to even get this far compared to their usual pace, she thinks, from her perch next to Robin with dismay. The horse, a placid beast, flicks its ear, as a curse came from the first wagon, and a cry for a new axle. Robin draws the wagon to a stop, and Akela hops down, slotting her glaive into the rest carved for it. As her weight hits the ground, flecks of mud are dredged up; Robin flinches, and Akela rolls her eyes. Then she hurries to the third wagon.

Her father, Ethan, glances up at her and grunts, as she crouches to lift the wheel with two of the adults. The axel is replaced and fitted easily enough; Ethan has had long experience doing so, after all.

“Thanks, Akela,” he says quietly, as he packs the broken axel into the back of the wagon. She smiles, and drops back to the third wagon, bare toes squelching through the mud; no sense ruining shoes by wearing them in these rice terraces.

She swings back onto the wagon seat, and the wagons move forward again. She glances at Robin.

“We’re not making good time,” she says, feeling a frown crease her forehead. Robin nods her agreement.

“Part of it’s the terrain, it’s slowing the horses even more, but Mother just can’t travel for as long as she used to,” she says, flicking the reins. The placid horse obeys, and walks forward. “Even by wagon, rather than walking.”

Akela sighs, blowing a flyaway strand of black hair away from her face.

“Her timing was impeccable.”

Robin frowns at the implication, and Akela realizes she’s put her foot in it.

“Sorry,” she says, hastily. “That came out wrong.”

“You don’t say,” Robin says, with a little asperity. Her frown deepens. “You have a point, though. Why _now_ , of all times? You would’ve thought that we’d be enough.”

Akela snorts, and then freezes, as a thought struck her. The knowing looks that some of the older Players cast, when they thought she couldn’t see, after her mother was scolding her with the exasperated refrain: _you’ll never make a Player at this rate!_

“Maybe she figures the troupe needs a spare,” she says, shrugging. “Grown-ups. Who knows how they think?”

The jibe lightens Robin’s face, and the chatter moves elsewhere. But the thought that old Nestor might be right, that the Player’s life is not the one for her, persists until she discards it, with a brisk, hard shake of her head. She’s becoming fanciful, and if she isn’t careful, she’ll find herself making as little sense as a grown-up.  

* * *

They’re invited to perform at Castle Tirragen and enjoy hospitality there for a few nights. The Lord, named Jason of Tirragen, who can’t be more than twenty years old, informs them that they’ll perform for him, his lady wife and the household staff, as his younger brothers are out riding the Fief, and his stepmother is bedridden with fever. There’s a shadow that flickers across his face as he says this, a flash of sadness; then his wife, Lady Miranda, squeezes his hand and the shadow lifts.

They run through a repertoire of songs, and short acts, and they’re delighted when Lord, Lady and staff clap enthusiastically between each item. The applause encourages them, and Akela abandons her usual reserve, for once, throwing herself into her parts of the performance with all the energy she can muster.

And it’s times like this that make her think _I could never give this up_ , when the energy surges between the audience and the Players. When they gasp and hide their mouths in horror at all the right moments, as the fair maiden (Dahlia) is kidnapped by the marauding highwayman (Ethan); when they whistle and cheer as she is rescued by her True Love (Aidan); and when they listen in silence as the Players all throw their voices into the final, concluding song.

Akela feels her veins fizz as she sings, her head is light, and she’s flying on harmonies of soprano, alto, and baritone. Her heart is thundering as they hit that triumphant _hoy! hoy!_ which rings finality. The servants are on their feet, whistling and stamping. The Lord and Lady are clapping so hard, and the applause crashes around her ears like a roar of thunder. She can’t stop grinning. She looks to her left, she sees her usually quiet father catching her mother in his arms. Melody laughs, and dips her head to kiss Ethan, and there’s more hooting and catcalling and whistling. It’s been a _fantastic_ night, and everybody knows it.

Two nights later, they perform as a troupe once more at Castle Tirragen, for the staff, the Lord and his Lady, and the two errant younger brothers who have returned. She’s surprised at their youth, again; one of them is about ten her own age, and the other is about fifteen. Though the two elder Tirragen brothers have the dusty, olive-skinned complexions of hillmen, the younger one’s skin is a shade darker, and there’s something about his eyes that his elder brothers do not have.

She yanks her gaze away in order to concentrate on the performance, and pours her lower soprano into harmonising with Robin’s descant. It’s rude to stare, she reminds herself, and they haven’t finished performing yet.

It’s not quite as good as their performance earlier that week, but it’s good nonetheless. Akela is pleased when the shadows around the Tirragen brothers’ eyes all lighten, and the youngest claps in time with the music, along with the servants.

At the end, old Nestor rises and bows, with Ethan and Aidan hovering a couple of paces back, close enough to steady him if he wobbles.

“My lords and lady,” he says, his voice still Player-firm and deep. “I thank you for your hospitality and your kindness to we humble Players, but we must bid farewell to you on the morrow. One of our number has been with child these past two months, and we had hoped to travel to north to the City with the Gods, so that she could deliver there.”

“And of course you will wish to present the girls to the Great Mother,” the Lady replies, with a gracious nod.

Nestor dips his head. “My lady’s cleverness is as brilliant as her beauty, and in both respects, she outshines the stars,” he says.

“Elder brother,” the second son breaks in, “if they are travelling to the City of the Gods in time for birth, they will need to go through rough country. May I be permitted to take a squad of men-at-arms and ride with them, so that they do not fall prey to bandits?”

Slowly, Lord Jason smiles. “Certainly, Duncan. Take Sergeant Connor’s squad, it will do them good to spend some of their energy.” He glances at Nestor. “I trust that you are agreeable?”

This time, Nestor, Aidan and Ethan all bow. “My lords are most generous, and we are grateful beyond telling for their kindness,” Nestor says. “By your leave, we shall spent the rest of this night making preparations so that we may leave as soon as my Lord wishes.”

“I can have the squad ready by three hours after dawn,” Duncan replies, his eyes brightening.

The whole troupe rises, joins hands, and bows to their patrons. Once more, Nestor speaks for them all.

“My lords, my lady, by your leave, we depart now. We remain, as ever, your servants, the Rambling Rosehips.”

The Lord nods. “You have our leave. Go now,” and so fast Akela almost misses it, he winks, “for your children look as though they’re dead on their feet.”

Truth be told, Akela has been stifling a yawn, and Robin has been holding her hand in front of her mouth for the past few minutes as the adults concluded the formalities. The flash of humour from this noble is a pleasant surprise, and Akela smiles as she files out of the room, sandwiched firmly between Robin and Melody.

On the road again, with them fed, rested, and with two squads of men-at-arms to see them through the badlands between Tirragen and the Great Road East. Just as well, really; travelling Players aren’t defenceless, but they’re not soldiers either, and the badlands can be very rough. A squad of men-at-arms will make them all feel better.

* * * *

By the third night, they’ve fallen into a rhythm, of rising at dawn, travelling for four hours, breaking for a noonday meal, travelling for another four hours, and then making camp. Half the squad assists the Players in making camp and breaking it, while the other half of the squad and Lord Duncan stand guard; everyone makes sure to save some food for men-at-arms guarding them, so that nobody misses a meal. And on the fourth day, just as the Players are preparing to make camp, there is a shout of alarm from a man-at-arms near the first wagon. Akela’s head snaps towards the cry, and bandits seem to materialise out of the shaky twilight; with a cry, the men-at-arms launch themselves at them.

Without further ado, she grabs her glaive and sprints forward. Robin clambers up onto the roof of the wagon, unwrapping the black sash from her waist, and reaching into her pouch of river stones. Akela follows her father, whose sword is already unsheathed, and Aidan, his spear in his hand.

It’s messy, and she slides into a gap where one man-at-arms has fallen; his comrade besides him spares her a glance, and then turns his attention back to the bandit in front of him, smashing his spear from his hand with an overhead blow from his halberd.

Another bandit comes forward, a big cove, her head barely comes up to his hip, and Akela jumps forward – not too far, mustn’t leave the protection of her friends – to thrust her glaive into his thigh. He howls in agony, and falls, his face paling rapidly, and she yanks her glaive back out. The blade – sharp, _sharp_ , she never slacks with her whetstone – is drenched in blood, and it spatters across her shirt, and face. The bandit’s breeches are drenched in seconds with both blood and urine, and she realises _he’s going to die_.

In a few more seconds, the ragged remnants of the bandits have fled back into the hills, and Akela is still staring at the pale man – no, corpse, for his eyes are glassy, dead – before her feet. Her grip on her glaive has turned her knuckles white.

Far away, she hears someone clear their throat. She turns.

The man-at-arms she had stood beside earlier looks at her gently.

“Akela, isn’t it? Let go of your glaive. The fight’s over.”

Numbly, she obeys, and it takes a while before those words sink in – over, over, _over –_ and then the confirmation comes from warm hands on her shoulder, and the sound of Ethan’s voice. “You’re safe, sweetheart,” he murmurs.

Safe. But she’d–

she twists out of his hold, and falls to her knees, as her stomach lurches. She vomits, feeling horror, and fear, and _oh great Goddess, I just **killed** someone, I just_ …

The glaive had gone into his thigh; it must have severed some great blood vessel, there, for the man had been dead in minutes.

She’d just…

She…

Akela feels her father smoothing her hair back, still whispering to her, and she sits back on her haunches, trying to wipe at her mouth. The man-at-arms kneels beside her, offering a canteen. She takes it in trembling hands, takes a gulp, and spits it out, repeating until her mouth feels a bit less vile. The man watches her, and grips her shoulder.

“Akela. Listen to me,” he says calmly. “Ye did right. Ye protected your family. Your people. And ye protected me. Ye did right.”

She swallows, her mouth still bitter. “I just _killed_ someone.”

“Aye,” the man nods, confirming the awful truth, “so ye did. Someone who was coming at thee and thine, armed, intending to rob, kill, and plunder. ‘Twas either your blood on his hands, or his on yours.”

She shivers, and looks up at Ethan. His eyes are fixed on hers, as he smooths back her hair. “Lukas is right, Akela,” he says, kissing her gently on the forehead. “You did right. He came intending to kill your people, and you protected them. You didn’t torment, you were fast and more merciful than he would have been. Any court in the Known Lands would say that you did right.”

She leans her head against his chest, feeling like a little girl, asking her Da for protection from the dark. But how can she be a little girl now that she has a man’s blood on her hands, clothes, face?

“But Da, it was so _awful_.”

Lukas’ hearing is sharp, and he catches the muffled murmur. “Aye, so it was,” he says, squeezing her shoulder again. “You’re the Player, Missy; what does that old saw about duty say?”

She sniffs, lifting her head from her father’s chest, and asks, “What saw?”

“’Tis a Tyran saw, from one of their plays.”

Ethan nods, understanding. “You know it, Akela. ‘Duty is not always honourable and pleasant. It's often neither.’”

She mulls the words over, and eventually, gives a weary nod. It’s awful, it’s terrible, but she thinks she understands.

“It was awful. But it needed doing,” she says. Ethan and Lukas nod.

“Just so, little one,” says Lukas. “Are ye well enough to stand?”

“I think so,” she replies. They find that she can. Ethan walks with her, her hand in his. As they walk back to the wagons, they find Melody, clearly anxious, twisting her sling-sash through her fingers. As she sees her husband and child, she gives a sob of relief, and runs forward to them. She wraps Ethan in a hug, and draws Akela to her skirts. Akela loops her arms around her beautiful mother and doesn’t let go. They stay that way for long, long minutes, until they finally break apart.

Melody looks at Akela. “Sweetling? Whose blood?” she asks, tracing it on her face, frowning.

Akela tries for a smile; it comes out weak and feeble. “Not mine, Ma,” she promises. “I’m not hurt.”

Melody relaxes slightly, then the logical consequence hits her. “If not yours, then someone else’s.”

Akela nods. She cannot hide this new thing.

Melody is quiet for a long moment. “Goddess above, sweetling, I wish you had been spared that. I’ll tell Nestor.”

“Ma?” she asks. Melody smooths Akela’s hair back.

“Nestor will explain, darling. Come along;  there’s a fire built up, and you need to wash that blood off.”

* * * *

That night, camp is sad and slow. After they’ve eaten, Nestor rises to speak.

“My troupe, there is bittersweet news. We have been lucky, for, by the Black God’s grace, none of our party were called to the Peaceful Realms today. But Akela Ethansra took part in the fighting today to protect us, and she slew one of the bandits with her glaive. Therefore, when we arrive in the City of the Gods, she will choose whether she will remain a Player, and if not, where and at what she will try her hand.”

Akela’s eyes widened, as the troupe bowed their heads solemnly.

“Ma? Da?” Akela asked, feeling her eyes go wide. “I’m not old enough to choose yet! I’m not yet sixteen!”

Sixteen was when a child was considered to have become a youth. When Player children decided to follow their parents, or make their own way.

Melody’s arm was warm around her shoulders. “I’m sorry, sweetheart,” she said. “But once you’re old enough to have taken a life, you are no longer a child.”

Akela swallowed, and nodded. “Alright. I guess that makes sense.”

But I’d have liked a little longer before I had to grow up, she thought, wistfully. Longer, before I did something like that.

Ethan squeezed her shoulder again. “You did right. Don’t doubt it,” he said firmly. “Actions all have consequences, and they aren’t any more pleasant than duty, often enough. But you did right.”

And with that reassurance, she has to content herself, as Melody and Ethan rise, beckoning her to come with them, and go to make some small offerings to the gods in the little shrines in the first wagon, to the Goddess, Mithros, and Semele, the Players’ goddess. Offerings to the Black God will have to wait, until they come to one of his temples. That night, Akela beds down between her parents, hoping that their combined presence will keep the nightmares away.

* * * *

They don’t. The changes to her sleep make her irritable, all the way to the City of the Gods. She keeps up with her lessons, obedient, but even the parts she used to delight in, no longer hold any savour. There's no joy in her recorder, or in dancing, or in singing. Her mother and Ethan scarcely leave her side, and she wishes that their hovering was irritating, because that would mean she was better. Instead, she’s glad of it, and just wishes that their presence with her kept the nightmares away.

Their first visit is to the Temple of the Black God. The Temple’s interior is dark, the stony floors are highly polished, and the air is cool; the air is still, and calm. Swallowing, she and her mother step forward to the altar, and place their offerings at the feet of the statue: a bloodstained scrap of the shirt she’d been wearing during the attack, not washed, and a river-stone taken from Melody’s pouch. The musical chimes of the offering being accepted play, and Akela gives a sob.

Something inside her breaks, as a hooded priest approaches them and kneels beside her.

“Friend?” Melody questions them.

The priest glances at her, nods, and then gazes at Akela.

“Let it go, child,” the voice’s owner is hooded, and Akela blinks; she didn’t know that the Black God had priestesses as well as priests. “Your burden has been relieved. Go with peace.”

With that, as the priestess rises, Akela clings to her mother’s arm as they walked out of the Temple, her composure breaking as soon as they left the Temple’s silence. Absolution crashes over her, and she cries into her mother’s skirts from pure relief. She has been forgiven.

And that night, she has no nightmares.

* * *

The next night, she and Robin are presented at the Temple of the Goddess. Akela bites on her lip to keep from crying out as one of the Temple Daughters pricks her finger, drawing out ten drops of blood, one for every year of her life. When her blood is mixed with wine, and poured onto the altar, the chimes play of acceptance, and the Daughters – even the stone-faced Temple warriors, armed with their massive double-headed axes – all seem to sigh, as a wave of reverence sweeps through the room. She tries to swallow around the lump in her throat, and looks at Robin, whose blue eyes are just as fearful as she knows her own are.

They have been heard, their offering of blood received; before they’ve even had their first bleeding, they have passed from the protection of the Mother offered to children to the patronage of the Maiden. They are no longer children, and no longer in the domain of childhood.

She shivers, from both fear and the air of solemnity. She knows she wants to protect people – that drive was instinctive as it propelled her towards the bandits, below thoughts or emotions, as deep as her bones – but she _cannot_ be a Temple Guard.

* * *

The final Temple she goes to the next day is the Temple of Mithros. She goes in alone, fingering the offering she has brought: her old, battered whetstone. She hopes that the god of war and battle will appreciate it.

A priest intercepts her as she makes for the altar, and she frowns: what is it about this city?

“I recommend that you try that shrine over there, young lady,” the tonsured priest rumbles.

Akela pivots to where he is pointing, but not before bowing to him, and walks that way instead, politely ignoring the sound of his footsteps behind her. There are several shrines, just as there were in that of the Temple of the Goddess; but where she had three for each stage of life (Maiden, Mother, Crone),  Mithros has ones for different aspects of himself. The one to which Akela has been directed is a golden altar, with several emblems engraved into it: crossed swords over scales, and a dove.

Her eyebrows bounce, as she recognises the symbols of justice and peace; this is the shrine of Mithros, the god of justice and law.

She bows to the shrine, and places the whetstone at the foot of the altar; and she hears the sound of battle-cries and clashing weapons, and musical chimes. Her eyes widen, and her heart thunders, as she stares at the symbols. Swords over scales and a dove; the god is pleased to accept her offering at this shrine, of Mithros as Justice.

And then she smiles, not a big grin but a small, quiet smile of realisation, as the answer to the riddle of what to choose clicks into place.

She can’t be a warrior, or a soldier, it’s not who she is. But she could grow to be a Guard. Someone whose job is to keep the peace.

She bows, low, first to the shrine, and then to the priest, who is standing there, looking satisfied.

“Thank you very much, sir,” she says, keeping her voice low. “You’ve helped me a lot.”

She exits the Temple with a spring in her step, even as she can feel the swell of irritation from some of the priests behind her. She looks around and darts across the street to her mother.

She can see her mother’s eyebrow rising – has her demeanour changed so much? – as she skids to a halt in front of her skirts.

“Ma,” Akela says, smiling a little, even though she’s not sure what her mother’s reaction will be. “I’ve figured out what I want to be.”

“Well?” Melody asks, eyebrow still cocked.

Akela flashes her sweetest, most charming smile. “I want to be a Guard, a Provost’s Guard. Where do you think I should go to do it?”

And Melody’s shoulders shake with mirth and a memory of dawn playing on a newly-named squalling bundle of flesh.

“Let’s go talk to your father,” Melody says, through her giggles, and slips her hand around Akela’s.

And as they walk, and discuss where might be a good place, and where their various relatives who could be contacted are – mostly in Corus, apparently – Akela feels the first stirrings of happiness once more.

– The End 

**Author's Note:**

> The final song which the Rosehips perform at Castle Tirragen, with the "hoy! Hoy!" bits is Sosban Fach. Check it out, it's awesome.  
> The "Tyran saw about duty" is actually a line from 1635: The Cannon Law, the Catalan character Ruy Sanchez de Casador y Ortiz, who says to one woman, "Duty is not always both honourable and pleasant, and is frequently neither." Check the 1632 series out, because it is also epic.  
> Semele is the mortal mother of Dionysos in Greek mythology. Given Dionysos' association with drama and inspiration, she seemed like a fitting choice for a Player goddess.


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